


Exactly Like This

by orphan_account



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canon verse, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Other, changing pronouns, gender realization, genderfluid Achilles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus has noticed a look in Achilles' eyes, and knows his lover is unhappy.  When Achilles returns from the raid with a few treasures, Patroclus takes a risk, because he is desperate to see Achilles content again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exactly Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyAmina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmina/gifts).



> Written for the amazing LadyAmina who shared with me some fantastic headcanons about genderfluid Achilles--which were total perfection. So I thought I'd try my hand at this universe. It's my first time writing for TSOA so it's probably not very good but I tried. xx

It was a moment, profound yet so simple, one had hadn’t realised he’d already noticed until he saw his lover’s face. It was a look of belonging, of contentment Patroclus had seen before, as they lay there together just after Achilles had spent himself. A moment when Achilles hand was on his face, and their gazes were connected and he was there with him. Holding him.

Existing.

But often that look was absent from his lover’s face. In armour, in battle. Often he would return to the tent battered and exhausted, not from the battles which he could win on his own, but from being someone he was not.

It was a look Patroclus had recalled one night when the winds were low and the stars were more vibrant than they had ever been. A look he had seen on Achilles face when he was not dressed as himself, nor was he dressed as the warrior the Greeks needed him to be.

It was a look he had when he was dressed in women’s clothing, wearing the gentle, flowing robes and veils and dancing with the others. A look of belonging and understanding of who he was. Patroclus longed for that look outside of their bed. He longed to find a way to bring that back to his lover in moments of quiet, where they were sitting. When Achilles had the lyre, when his voice was rising and falling, and lulling Patroclus into believing that all would be well, and this would be forever.

And they just were.

They were.

A lull in raids left Patroclus wandering by the shoreline whilst the others returning gathered to split the spoils of the day. There, in the distance, far from the salty spray, were a small cluster of flowers. He had a sudden thought then, how lovely those might look in the sun-drenched locks. He gathered them, not thinking much about what he might do with them, or what he would use them for. Perhaps Briseis would enjoy them. Perhaps Achilles.

He found his feet shuffling through the sands back toward the tent. He could hear a humming coming from the women’s tent, someone spoke, and someone laughed. A flit of a smile crossed his features before he made his way back to his own. It was empty, but full. These stolen hours with Achilles made everything seem full, even when he was not present.

On the small table near their bed lay a comb. It was a simple thing, carved ivory. Patroclus hadn’t noticed it before. The carvings were delicate, foreign, intricately etched in swirls and slashes. He fingered it, dipping his nail into the grooves and tracing along each bit. He closed his eyes and thought of himself drawing the teeth through tangled blonde locks. He could see Achilles head tipping forward, eyes closing. Enjoying the ministrations. He could see Achilles’ shoulders rising and falling with a breath, with a relief that aristos achaion had not felt since…

His thoughts were cut off when a breeze brushed past his face. The clink of armour, feet padding hard on the tent floor. He turned to see his lover there, wind-swept, without a helmet, splatters of blood but not nearly as much as there had been in days past. Patroclus could not help himself when his hands came out, brushing along the tops of the scuffed metal before going to the clasps to undo them.

A ritual between them, not one Achilles always allowed Patroclus to perform, but today his lover seemed in the mood for it. Patroclus’ fingers nimbly and expertly worked the clasps, making sure the pads of his fingers brushed naked flesh as often as he could as each piece hit the ground. Over and over.

_Clink._

_Clink._

_Clink._

_Clink._

And soon he was in nothing more than a tunic, hanging low, to the middle of his thigh. A slight breeze shifted the tent door, and for a moment a ray of sun illuminated the soft, yellow hairs on Achilles’ legs. Patroclus could not seem to stop himself from palming the tops of his lover’s thighs, and he revelled in the soft breath Achilles breathed out. Simple. A breath of comfort and home—though they were so far away from either.

Patroclus’ head turned up only when callused fingers, rough from wielding spear after spear, gripped him by the chin. Achilles’ eyes were narrowed, world-weary, confused and lost. But they found root in Patroclus, as they always did, and there was only a breath, just a pause, before the distanced between them was closed.

Achilles’ lips were warm as ever. Pliant as ever. Parting gently for a press of Patroclus’ tongue on his own. Patroclus clutched his lover by the hips, drawing them as close as he could. 

_Let there be no space between us. Let us never be farther than this._

Achilles let out a small groan as Patroclus walked them to the bed, falling down, skin burning against each other, hands wandering in familiar paths they would always know about each other. Soon enough they were oiled, Achilles seated in Patroclus’ lap being filled and taken. Achilles bounced gently, both hands pressed against Patroclus’ chest to steady himself. Patroclus’ fingers dug into the defined muscles around Achilles’ hips, guiding the motions, breathing out, locking gazes and never letting go.

Not until Achilles kissed him. And then he cried out against those soft lips, spilling inside his lover. Achilles was not long after, gasping, curling long fingers around Patroclus’ hand which was stroking over and over, bringing his lover to completion.

When it was over, Achilles rolled to the side, sitting up to catch some of the light breeze. Patroclus considered the basin of water, a bit of cloth to wash them, but his gaze fell on the ivory comb instead. His fingers reached out for it, and he turned, staring at the wide expanse of Achilles’ back. His other hand reached out, pressing flat along Achilles’ spine. His lover tensed, then relaxed, and shifted backward only slightly into Patroclus’ grasp.

“Are you alright?” Patroclus eventually asked, voice barely above a whisper. Achilles said nothing until Patroclus began to draw the comb through his sweat-dampened locks. It tugged on a few tangles, but eventually worked through them.

“I am alright.” Achilles’ voice was low and tense, saying to Patroclus that perhaps he was not lying, but did not quite know what was wrong.

For now, Patroclus gave his lover this. A quiet moment of peace and comfort. When Achilles’ hair was smooth as it always had been, the locks gently curling at his shoulders, Patroclus began to push his fingers through it. He gathered several locks at the crown of Achilles’ head, then began to twist them into an elaborate plait, the way he had seen Briseis do with the other women. Achilles made a noise, startled—perhaps because he remembered this being done to him when he was in hiding.

Perhaps because he had not expected Patroclus to think of such a thing. Especially knowing what Achilles had done—whether or not it was forgiven—had caused Patroclus such pain.

But Achilles remained still until Patroclus used a leather thong to tie it up. He lacked the pins and combs that the women had, but the plait was elegant—if not a bit amateurish. It suited Achilles though, more than Patroclus thought it might. When Achilles turned, Patroclus smiled, then reached for the bundle of flowers he’d left on the floor near the table. He plucked a few blossoms from them, and pressed them into his lover’s hair. His fingers lingered over them, brushing lightly, drawing down Achilles’ cheeks. The pads of his fingers brushed along a plump lip, down the hollow of a throat, delighting in the soft parting of Achilles’ mouth, or the way his breath seemed to leave him as though it hadn’t permission to do so.

“I love you,” Patroclus whispered.

Achilles’ hand went up, brushing along the work Patroclus had done. His eyes turned soft, and his hands reached for Patroclus, drawing him closer, closer, kissing him with parted lips and a wet, warm tongue.

When they parted once more, Achilles rose, naked now. He carried himself differently. Lighter, unlike the warrior heading to battlefield. He seemed to press more to the tips of his toes, an arch to his back, and Patroclus felt his heart speeding up as his lover went for the bags he’d dropped near the door with his armour.

“I brought a few things back. We were not able to win much. There was no argument for these.” His hands drew out a cloth made of light material, white with a gold hue to it. A dress, Patroclus realised. Achilles dragged the fabric across his fingers, over his knuckles. “I thought…perhaps…” He stopped. “Briseis…”

Without truly thinking of it, Patroclus was on his feet, moving over, taking the dress from Achilles’ hands and pressing it to the broad torso. “Perhaps,” Patroclus whispered, “it was not for her. But for someone else.”

Achilles looked at Patroclus for a long time, then seemed to be unable to hold the gaze, and the light eyes cut away. Patroclus would not have that, he would not have Achilles hiding from him. Not when he would tear apart the world to see that soft smile he knew for certain he would never be able to live without. His hand came up, cupping Achilles’ cheek.

“Do not hide yourself from me. Any of yourself. Please,” he begged. Achilles stood, unmoving. Patroclus went to the tent, grabbing the ropes then, and shutting them inside. He tied knots men would have to work hard at undoing. When he was finished, he turned to see Achilles still holding the dress, still staring down at the tent floor. He returned, pulling the cloth from Achilles’ long fingers. “You are wanting something you cannot voice.”

Achilles looked up, eyes terrified, but hopeful. “There was a moment, when I was with Deidameia’s women, when I was one. That I felt…” Trailing off, Achilles took a breath. Patroclus had never seen his lover look so uncertain, so unsure and lost. It made his chest ache with a desire to make it right. Somehow.

“Put it on. For me,” he added when Achilles looked hesitant.

Achilles perhaps would say it was because he could never tell Patroclus no, but there were more reasons. A desire he’d never had words for. A life he had never been given a chance to live or to explore. A fate he could not escape, which robbed him of truly knowing himself. Perhaps Patroclus did not fully understand what it was, but he fully understood Achilles, and the desire to do this.

The need for it.

He helped. As he had helped Briseis and the other women change sometimes. He eased the thin shoulders up onto Achilles’ arms, and adjusted the clasps in the back.

It fit. It was snug, and created curves Patroclus had previously been unaware of. It made his breath catch. How was there a shape his lover’s body could make he did not yet know? How was there this, and he had not seen it?

Perhaps he might have, once. When Achilles was dressed as a woman, dancing, living under the guise, but he had not paid attention. He had been so consumed by escape, and in that way he knew he had failed Achilles. If he had taken a moment to think beyond their future, beyond the path that led them here, he might have known. Achilles might not have felt suffering in this way.

His hands brushed along Achilles’ sides, the fabric silky under the pads of his fingers. His lips parted and a word breathed out. “Beautiful.”

Achilles’ eyes shone. “Patroclus.” The name was spoken as it always had been. Deliberate. Purposeful. A meaning no one else heard but Patroclus and Achilles.

Patroclus reached out, touching the flowers again. He desperately wished he had a mirror, so that Achilles might see the vision now, the transformation, the light in those green eyes which felt suddenly right and home and perfect in a body which had, earlier that day—and so many times before—felt wrong.

Patroclus might not have understood that, but he understood Achilles.

They kissed again. A pressing of lips, gentle and softer than it had been. They moved backward, the feel of the dress against Patroclus’ skin like a kiss from the gods as they lay together. He could not seem to keep his hands off this new vision, this new part of his lover he had been unaware of. It made his head spin with guilt, how he had missed this, how he had not in the months and years before, told Achilles this was alright. This was perfect. Every single part of Achilles was perfect.

Moments passed, both of them unaware of how many, only that the sky was growing dim. But they were still touching and there was still a smile on Achilles’ face.

“Shall I call you something else?” Patroclus drifted light fingertips over Achilles’ cheek, then gave the Greek word for woman. “Where no one else shall hear it. But it is yours, if you wish it, without judgment from me.”

Achilles bent forward, pressing against Patroclus’ collarbone. Fingers dug into Patroclus’ still-naked side. “Guné.” Trying the word on an unfamiliar tongue, Achilles said it once more.

Patroclus echoed the sentiment, and when Achilles nodded, Patroclus kissed him and whispered it against soft lips.

“Just between us?” Achilles whispered.

“Between us.” Patroclus looked up into his lover’s eyes then, watching her lips curve into a smile, watching the light return to her eyes. It was theirs alone for now. Perhaps it would always be theirs alone, as their time was borrowed from the gods, and doomed.

“I do not believe it is always,” Achilles said. She rested her head in the centre of Patroclus’ chest to listen to the thrumming heartbeat which always seemed to calm her. “It is not the dress that does it, either.”

Patroclus brushed fingertips along her naked forearm. “Alright,” he said quietly.

“It is an impossible feeling to describe. It’s a need, under my skin that no language has words for. But this is close. Closer,” she amended. “Do you find me…” She trailed off, not having the words for that, either.

“I find you perfect,” Patroclus admitted. He took her by the chin, brushing their lips together with a softness often absent these days. “I find you perfect in any way you are. It seems strange, I have not experienced this before, but it seems right. For you. I have noticed you holding something inside and I do not want that with me. No secrets.”

Achilles reached out for Patroclus’ hand, pressing their palms together. Patroclus could feel their pulses tapping against each other. “Are we happy, Patroclus?”

He laughed. He could not help himself. “I suppose we are. Perhaps more so now than before. In spite of the terror I feel. And the impending grief.”

“I shall never truly leave you,” Achilles whispered. She turned to press her lips against Patroclus’ neck and kept them resting there. Softly, wonderingly. Unmoving. “Never.”

“And I shall always be right here. Like this.”

Exactly like this.


End file.
